


shut up and dance with me

by frozensight



Series: a whole new world (literally) [7]
Category: Nova (Comics), Ultimate Spider-Man (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 12:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4434914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozensight/pseuds/frozensight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s neighbor in 3B plays a lot of music. They play a lot of music just loud enough for him to hear it through the wall. This isn’t usually a problem, until the day when it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shut up and dance with me

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: You never see the guy that lives next door to you, but he plays a lot of hip indie music, just soft enough that it’s not distracting. One day, he starts blasting “Shake It Off” and you go investigate. (Turns out he had a really, really bad day.) (You’re there to kiss it better.)

Sam Alexander likes his life. It's pretty basic after all, and kind of the only one he currently has.

(Though how cool would it be to have a superhero alter ego? Pretty _damn_ cool, Sam thinks.)

Mediocrity aside, Sam manages to find joy in the little things: like ruining his younger sister's first date by showing up with his girlfriend at the time, Carrie, and effectively making it an impromptu double date. Or like the time Sam successfully beat his dad's high score in Pong. _Or_ when Sam surprised his entire high school class by getting accepted to MIT and then actually _going._

(Sure, he's now stuck in Cambridge for the next few years, miles upon miles away from his family, but the look on Principal Philbin's face when it was announced he'd gotten a full ride alone was totally worth it. You know, plus they have a kickass science department and whatever.)

Anyway, the point is, he’s totally happy in his small as fuck studio apartment despite the fact that he has to travel on a subway for like twenty minutes to get to campus and back or that more often than not he feels incredibly in over his head in all of his classes. He’s still at fucking _MIT_ on his own merits and is living by himself for the first time. All in all, Sam’s doing pretty great.

He’d be doing _even better_ though if his neighbor would stop imposing his personal musical preferences on him.

“Just tell him to turn it off if it bothers you so much,” says Carrie when Sam skypes her next. They haven’t been dating since before prom their senior year, but she’s still the closest thing he’s got to a best friend. “You’re supposed to be an _adult_ , Sam.”

“It’s just—it’s not _that_ loud. In fact sometimes it’s kind of soothing, like background noise. Plus I don’t want to be that kind of neighbor who sends noise complaints to the landlord all the time.”

Carrie rolls her eyes, the sun still shining through her window whereas the sun set on Cambridge minutes earlier. Sam’s really happy she got into her dream school of Berkley, even if it means being on the literal other side of the country from her and in a drastically different time zone.

“Jesus, Sam, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you had a crush on the guy.” When he doesn’t respond immediately—he actually averts his eyes, focusing on his poster of the solar system that his dad got him as a ‘going off to college’ present that’s on the wall across the room—she gasps, “Samuel Alexander, do you have a crush on your neighbor?!”

“ _No_ , Christ, Carrie, I don’t even know what he looks like!”

Her face pinches. “Then how do you even know he’s a dude?”

“I’ve heard him on the phone yelling at someone.”

“That’s presumptuous of you, Sam; I thought I taught you better than that.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Oh for the love of—I’ve heard his friends refer to him as ‘he’ through the walls, _okay_? I didn’t just jump to the conclusion.” He had, actually, but like hell would he tell Carrie that. Plus he _had_ heard his neighbor’s friends talk about him using male pronouns during the last get together they had, so he isn’t exactly lying either.

Carrie drops it, and instead picks up a new topic, “Those are some thin walls you have there, bro. I can’t imagine how many times you’ve also heard someone fucking.”

He shudders as he flashes back to one of his first nights in the apartment when the person in 3F had had a sex-all-night marathon with what had sounded like at least two other people. “You’re better off _not_ imagining it, I assure you.”

Her mouth opens—probably to make another joke at his expense—but she’s interrupted by her door opening. Someone, Sam assumes her roommate, asks, “You still talking with your not-boyfriend?”

“He’s _not_ my boyfriend,” repeats Carrie, her tone giving away that she’s had to say this _a lot_.

“But he was, blah blah blah, I don’t _care_ ,” replies the roommate, off screen, “I’m just checking to make sure you’re still coming with us to the meeting tonight.”

“Fuck—yeah I’m still coming. Hold on, let me say goodbye to—”

“You’re not-boyfriend, I know. We’ll be waiting outside.”

There’s the sound of the door shutting, and Carrie’s continues to glare in the direction her roommate left until Sam clears his throat. She huffs, but looks back at him.

“Sorry for cutting this short, Sam. I forgot about the meeting, but I’ll text you, okay?”

“It’s _fine_. Talk to you later, Carrie.”

She beams at him, and he smiles back as they disconnect the call. He misses her, but Sam finds that he misses a lot of people these days. (The other day he’d almost waxed poetic about his high school bullybefore he realized that was absurd.)

Now that he’s not talking with anyone, however, Sam can hear the music coming from the direction of 3B, the aforementioned neighbor who apparently doesn’t own headphones. The difference with today is that instead of the usual soft indie/folk music that usually filters through the walls, 3B has decided to blare some Taylor Swift.

Don’t get Sam wrong, her songs are damn catchy and he’s been known to belt along to We’re Never Ever Getting Back Together with Carrie from time to time, but she’s a bit out of 3B’s usual genre. He hates to admit it to himself, but the musical deviation is unnerving him more than volume of the music itself.

_he’s blasting a tswift song_ , is the text Sam sends to Carrie, hoping that she checks it before her meeting starts.

_which one?_

_shake it off_

_how about you go and tell him to knock, knock, knock it off then?_

_funny. also unhelpful_

She doesn’t reply again, and Sam figures that means she’s busy with her meeting now. In the meanwhile, the music has gotten louder, and Shake It Off is _still_ on repeat. He thinks about leaving the apartment and going to hang out at the nearest coffee shop until 3B goes to sleep, but that would also require Sam to get dressed and spend money on coffee, when if he stays at home he can remain in his shirt and boxers and use his coffee machine instead.

So Sam proceeds to try and ignore the continuous noise that is Taylor Swift telling him that ‘the haters are gonna hate, hate, hate’ coming through the wall, and attempts to study for his calculus test on Monday.

He makes it about ten minutes before he realizes that if he hears the word ‘shake’ one more time, he might actually combust.

Tugging on some pants, Sam walks out of his apartment, dead set on telling off 3B and getting the peace and quiet he _deserves_ damnit. Naturally, the plan falters some when as he knocks loudly on the door, it becomes obvious that he cannot be heard over the music. Unsure what else to do, Sam decides _fuck it_ , and turns the doorknob because short of climbing out of his window and over to 3B’s, there’s nothing else for Sam to do.

He’s beyond dumbfounded when the door opens with no resistance.

With the door inching its way further ajar, the music grows clearer and louder as Sam slowly steps into 3B. He stops when from where he stands—half in the doorway and half still in the hall—he can see his neighbor flailing around in the section most likely designated as the living room, completely oblivious that someone has now entered his apartment. Feeling kind of like an assassin as he shuts the door behind him to save their fellow neighbors from the noise, Sam decides that before this spectacle goes on much longer—and it’s definitely a sight to see 3B ‘dancing’—he should probably make his presence known. Given that the music is so loud, he immediately dismisses the idea of talking, and goes straight for cutting it off at the source—Taylor Swift.

“Who the _fuck_ are you?” is the first sentence out of 3B’s mouth after Sam presses the power button on the stereo system (which is, of course, on the wall 3B shares with him, and explains everything, honestly).

“Hey, I’m from next door, and your music was kinda loud,” explains Sam, suddenly aware that his actions are probably a lot more intrusive and threatening than he meant them to be.

3B gives him a skeptical look, hand reaching for his phone. “Why didn’t you just knock like a normal person?”

“You see, I did, but you were so busy shaking it off, that you didn’t hear me. As a last ditch effort, I tried the door, and voila,” Sam finishes, waving his arms back towards the door as if he’d just done a magic trick. “You should really lock your door, man.”

“I thought I _had_ ,” comes the mumbled response of 3B, whose posture isn’t as on edge as it had been moments ago. They stand there, facing each other in the awkward silence of two people who have been vaguely aware of the other’s existence and have now been forced to interact. Sam is about to turn around and bolt back to the safety of his own apartment, when 3B says, “Sorry. About the music, I mean. I’ve just had a bad day and I needed to let off some steam, and I maybe got carried away.”

Sam shrugs, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “It’s fine, dude; it happens. Just maybe try to use headphones next time? A person can only stand so many repetitions of Shake It Off before they break down a door with an axe.”

3B smiles, and for the first time since he walked in, Sam registers that hey, 3B is kinda cute, and then _shit_ , he needs to get out of there before he does something stupid like say that out loud.

“Yeah, well, I bet you don’t have everyone breathing down your neck to become the next Ben Urich, even though while you admire the man and his works, you want to go in a _completely different direction_.”

“No,” begins Sam, not leaving 3B like he has told himself to do, but rather continuing the conversation, “can’t say I do. But I _do_ have a lot of people pressuring me to be the next Stark or Sagan, so I understand the urge to blare T-Swift loud enough to disturb your neighbor.”

He gets an evaluating look for that comment, and at the back of his mind, Sam thinks, ' _Now. Now would be a great time to have a smoke bomb so he could disappear without a trace._ ’ Unfortunately, Sam is not a spy or a ninja.

“Let me guess, MIT?” Sam nods, and 3B gives him a supportive grimace. “I go to Harvard myself, and I _am_ sorry about the music. I’ll try to keep it down in the future. I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did, really.”

“Your taste in music could be worse,” concedes Sam, and he has no idea why. Minutes ago he’d been complaining to Carrie about 3B, and here he is, _telling him it’s alright_. It’s the eyes, he figures; they’ve entranced him like Dracula. ( _I vant to shake it off_.)

“Doesn’t make it not rude,” adds 3B, though he’s looking at Sam with curiosity, as though he can’t quite figure Sam out. The feeling, Sam decides, is mutual.

“No, it’s still rude as hell, but only when you’re having a lone wolf dance party.” Sam would like to ask the court to strike the last few minutes of his life from the record so that he can start over, and maybe not do it to begin with. He knew he should’ve left before he made a fool of himself.

3B raises his eyebrow, stepping closer to Sam. “Are you implying that you’d like to join my dance party?”

Sam shuffles, unsure where the hell this is going and really distracted by the fact 3B is getting closer and more attractive as he gains confidence with each step. “I’m implying that I might be _less_ annoyed if I was part of the ‘letting off steam’ dance party, yes.”

“I’m Peter,” 3B says as a non sequitur introduction, a couple feet away from Sam now. “I’m a journalism major at Harvard.”

Sam narrows his eyes. “Why the hell are you at Harvard for journalism? Surely there’s a less snobby place to study newspapers.”

“Says the guy who goes to MIT,” counters Peter, but Sam’s a little surprised when he doesn’t seem offended or annoyed, only amused. He’s also closer again, having taken steps forward when Sam blinked.

“I got a full ride,” responds Sam, shoulders hunching up a bit in defense, “It’s not like I was gonna say _no_ to studying astrophysics with some of the best in the biz.”

“Because you can’t say no to prestige, can you?” Sam doesn’t have anything to say to that because he’s not _wrong_. Peter inherently seems to know this, and just grins at him, sort of challenging him but also sort of teasing. “You got a name, Mr. MIT? Or am I gonna have to make up a pseudonym for you—as is my artistic license as a journalist.”

“Sam.” He coughs, clearing his throat, incredibly aware of the fact that they’re standing very close to each other for two people who are hardly more than strangers. “I’m Sam.”

“Well, Sam, would you care to Shake It Off with me?” Peter holds his hand out, like he’s asking Sam to a fucking waltz, and Sam can’t help the grin on his own face.

He takes the offered hand, but doesn’t say anything. Instead he turns the stereo system back on, and as Taylor Swift resumes singing, they begin dancing—though Sam hesitates to call it dancing, as it’s more erratic flailing with absolutely no semblance of coordination. It’s fun, nonetheless, and they keep it up until the person from across the hall pounds on Peter’s door and politely yells at them to ‘shut the fuck up.’

Peter pulls Sam onto the couch with him after they turn off the music, the pair of them laughing breathlessly.

“Someone needs to tell _them_ to shake it off,” mutters Sam, his head thrown back as he stares up at Peter’s ceiling, which is exactly the same as his own apartment’s—imagine that. Peter laughs as he shifts, and Sam doesn’t have to look down to know that Peter’s sitting flush against him, hand resting on Sam’s knee, because he can feel the warmth Peter’s radiating. It’s a strange position for two people who didn’t even know each other’s names before an hour ago, but Sam’s oddly super okay with it all.

“You’re a decent dancer,” Peter comments, his hand still on Sam’s knee, and Sam’s head still on the back of the couch.

“Well, you’re an _awful_ dancer,” replies Sam, making Peter squawk indignantly. “You look like a giraffe who keeps getting electrocuted or something, dude. It’s _bad_.”

“And yet, you kept dancing with me.”

Against better judgment, Sam meets Peter’s eyes. Relief floods through him when he sees that Peter looks as apprehensive as Sam feels—he’s not alone is recognizing how weird their situation is or how much neither of them seems inclined to move.

“Yeah, well, you’re a cute giraffe.”

Peter beams at him, hand squeezing Sam’s knee gently, and not for nothing, Sam thinks they’re about to kiss, as weird as that sounds considering he doesn’t even know Peter’s last name or how old he is, but as always, Carrie tries to save him from imminent embarrassment. Today, she takes the form of a phone call.

Sam wants to ignore it, but Peter gives him an inquisitive look, as if to ask _why_ he’s ignoring it, like it could be from his significant other or his mom, so he reluctantly answers. “Hey Care, what’s up Care?”

“ _And here I thought we’d left Dane Cook references back in high school_.”

“Some bits are timeless, Carrie— _timeless_.”

“ _Uh-huh—bullshit. I just wanted to call and ask if your neighbor is still blasting Shake It Off or whether you sucked it up and asked him to quiet down._ ”

He glances over at Peter, who has his eyebrows raised, and it dawns on Sam that he’s close enough that he can totally hear Carrie over the phone. Blushing a little, but refusing to look away from Peter’s face, Sam says, “The situation in question has been resolved.”

Peter grins.

“ _Okay, that’s vague and strangely worded. What the hell did you do, Sam?_ ”

“I didn’t _do_ anything. I just knocked on his door and asked him to keep it down. That’s it, end of story.”

“ _And?_ ”

“And he said sorry and turned it down. The End.”

Peter huffs and murmurs, “That’s a rather simplified version, but sure. The End.”

Sam elbows him, shifting his phone to the other side, away from Peter, but it was too late. She’d heard Peter’s voice.

“ _Oh my God, Sam, are you **with** someone_?”

He meets Peter’s eyes. Peter waggles his eyebrows, making Sam smile, but the hand on his knee is moving up his thigh and Sam can only concentrate on so many stimuli at one time. “You know what, Carrie? I’ll call you back.”

“ _Oh no, do not hang up on me, Samuel Alexander! I will fly across this country and kick your ass if you so much as think about—_ ”

The decision to hit ‘end call’ happens more as an afterthought because Sam is much more interested in finally kissing Peter, the previously super annoying neighbor in 3B, and it seems Peter’s just as interested.

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I was surprised that I've written yet _another_ college au for this ship, but lbr I'm not.


End file.
